


An Original Ode

by XtaticPearl



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 14:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16682980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XtaticPearl/pseuds/XtaticPearl
Summary: A collection of prose/poetry about the original Avengers.





	1. Parts of a whole

**Author's Note:**

> This series will be expanded as I find new topics or prompts. If you folks have any ideas or wish to add any characters, send me a message on Tumblr or leave a comment here.

People think Tony is all mind - intellect and smartness and wit. While all that is fair, he is more _heart_. He is forged from fire and failure, broken shards of swords and bent steel. He is elastic in his strength and that is why he expands without extinguishing completely. He is the heart of a battle - the one who loses himself at a victory cost too high.

People look at Steve and see all soul - courage of the fallen and resilience of the hit. While all that is valid, he is more _mind_. He is crafted from numbing calm and necessary control, clumped atoms and electrified nodes. He is reflective in his strength and that is why he stands ground without shattering under all the force pressed against him. He is the mind of a battle - the one who calculates the cost of a victory needed with every defeat gathered.

People see Thor as the unbridled heart - honour of the kind and valour of the warriors. While it has been accepted by history, he is more _soul._ He is assembled from the scattered stars and soundless void, endless space and reborn springs. He is hopeful in his strength and that is why he can extend a hand burnt too often without hesitation of burning. He is the soul of a battle - the one who calls for the dignity of those who survive both victory and defeat.

People sensed Bruce’s presence like trudging feet - worn down by weight and cut by all that came in way. While it isn’t wrong to believe so, he is more _vision_. He is gathered from scrapes of a broken kaleidoscope and patches of unknown quilts, learnt warmth and hidden purpose. He is watchful in his strength and that is why he is protective even in the throes of his own destruction. He is the vision of a battle - the one who sees the fluttering flags just as well as the burning ground.

People knew that Natasha would hear even the unsaid and thus she was the ears unseen -  balanced in her information and aware of where the echoes rose. While it wasn’t unfounded, she is more _arms_.  She is moulded from the cold and conditioned, trained care and bloodstained sweat. She is adaptive in her strength and that is why she can create as precisely as she can burn down. She is the touch of a battle - the one who has weapons of the dead in one firm grip as the other holds a dying hand in gentleness.

People don’t see Clint and hence assume him to be the vision - sharp judgement and changing targets. While it was clear in reason, he is more _feet_. He is packed with gravel from streets fled and spring before a jump, fading footsteps and dragging knees. He is mobile in his strength and that is why he can walk away from ashes without dropping the burning embers he chose. He is the feet of a battle - the one who is never noticed till the others have become one with the ground.

And then there are Maria and Nick. The ears and voice of the stories from battles unknown. For all the force the body exerts, the team pulls together, there is always an aftermath waiting to be known. The ears hear it. The voice cautions the warriors who come searching for a battle again.


	2. Tears of legends

Steve cried in swallows. Heart crashing into lungs, suffocating in nerves, tears freezing on cheeks. Sorrow flowed in sweat of punches thrown, blood spit out from hits taken. He cried in fading transitions - one with the downpour and the landslides he would be buried under.

Tony cried in bites. Half formed lumps, shattering in synapses, teeth grit against escaped sounds. Grief exploded in clanging against burnt metal, dents in scratched exoskeletons. He cried in flashing flares - one with the false stars of festivities and finicky fame in which he would burn.

Thor cried in exhales. Cooling ash against scraped feet, cracking in joints, breathing in old wounds. Torment seeped into his bones in bloodbaths, melting ice with skin attached. He cried in beaten chests - one with the crown around his neck and choking smile with which he would be sculpted.

Natasha cried in blinks. Stained photographs crushed in fists, paralysing in mid motion, moisture dried in swollen eyes. Mortification tied into a bun between changing locks, paint reapplied on old skin colourless. She cried in darkened veils - one with the coffin lined with velvet and roses clinging to broken fences where she would be lost.

Bruce cried in rips. Threadbare memories melded into load, forsaken grasps clenched into self, salt mixed into terrified glares. Despair clipped into burnt fingernails, acid running into all bases. He cried in smudged glasses - one with the fog of polluted freedom and misspelt addresses of homes where he would never stay.

Clint cried in jerks. Motionless hitches of breaths, boiling in vaulted brain, trails down his jaw. Agony shot out of every quiver, screaming in the path of an arrow's release. He cried in abandoned free falls - one with the wish of unseen endings and breaking homes to find ground over which he would seek remains of himself.

It binds them. It breaks them. It is the human in them. It hurts.


	3. Arms raised

Thor hugs with arms of muted electricity. Raging storms are tamed, chaos finds a pause, and you experience a moment of energy even in fatigue. He hugs with experience of slipped away love, close and uncensored in support. His embrace lends solidarity.

Steve hugs with arms of corded snow. Heated spaces are relieved, defeat finds a purpose, and you experience a passing of awareness even in disorder. He hugs with memories of closed eyelids, loose and heavy in understanding. His embrace offers encouragement.

Tony hugs with arms of melting steel. Barren tracks are filled, journeys find direction, and you experience a fraction of freedom even in bound destiny. He hugs with blankets of ghosting protection, adjusting and reflective in acceptance. His embrace surrenders protection.

Bruce hugs with arms of matted roots. Cracked whole is glued, wounds find healing, and you experience a morsel of kindness beneath throbbing cruelty. He hugs with hesitance of the hurt, cautious and concerned in relief. His embrace suggests hope.

Natasha hugs with arms of frozen ash. Lowered sight is levelled, violence wrapped in reason, and you experience a bond of silence in the echoes of noise. She hugs with the lessons of the changed, sans judgement and jolts in alertness. Her embrace transfers self-reliance.

Clint hugs with arms of assessed voids. Bunched knots are loosened, humour seeped in honesty, and you experience a touch of reality in dismissed dreams. He hugs with the defiance of doomed, unbridled and unpredictable in adventure. His embrace gives motivation.

Arms shouldered beside each other and arms for those who seek them, they avenge for life but care for more. They are open. They are humane in heroism.


	4. Sleep of the restless

Bruce deflates in valleyed pauses, a shoulder alert while the other rests. Fuzzy colours under screwed eyelids, heavy head against soft, practicing breaths till they stop. Sleep comes in clogged brakes, hitting pavement of dreams sometimes hard. He rests with resented suspicion in his bones.

Natasha unwinds in evened nail beds, poised even as her feet tangle in sheets. Cobwebs over mirrored memories, hands grounded to still sides, trained decluttering till there is no thought left. Sleep enters in syrupy red outlines, enveloping her present till there is safety. She rests with comforting betrayal under her lashes.

Clint lays out on open terrace floors, weary callouses drumming against thin air. Swinging ropes link the stars, arms tucked to cushion a muddled brain, experimenting wishes of runaway dreams till they disappear. Sleep drapes over in white noise, an empty applause that drowns out a heavy laughter of gods. He rests with scabbed glory over his palms.

Thor reclines against stony silence, twisted familiar words balancing his neck. Defaced ceilings sing decayed lullabies, ankles crossed in learnt restraint, evaluating the distance between the next nightmare till it disappoints. Sleep pulls on him in branches of familiar touch, a false promise that morphs reality under illusion of blood. He rests with unasked fate beating under his ribs.

Steve falls onto spaces between worlds, lungs inhaling an air too new. Alarms ring before setting, counted breaths to keep warm, struggling in jerky motion to escape the ocean till loss faded into white. Sleep drags him under in ticking hands of changing time, a new reality waiting to challenge when broken. He rests with resigned stubbornness sealed between his brows.

Tony shuts down in pushed back holds, cheek digging into plans for an eluding peace. Created friends relate hints of normalcy, lights blotting out the darkness beneath machine beating, catching each breath as it leaves him in tradition till none matter more. Sleep drugs him in infused vows of pretense, a formidable force of want battling can’t. He rests with forced regulation holding up his spine.

For all that they conquer, some they don’t. For all that they run, rest they won’t. Until they must. Until they do.


	5. Joy beyond woe

Natasha finds it in uncurled secrets, smoothed over tensions between those she chose, fickle in pulses. Drops of doubts get wiped, drying in patches. She shows it with wrinkles catching soft eyes, crossed legs over polished tables, home in the moment and own in her peace. Joy is in vulnerability and she holds it with patience.

Clint finds it over projected laughter and projectile affection, ruffled hair as hands pass shoulders, light in pressure. Pulled back strings release stress, skin stretching back to old. He shows it during thrown matches, hung uniforms in marked closet, heart in the humour and hold of the friendly breeze. Joy is in adapting and he carries it with loyalty.

Bruce finds it between teasing comfort and trusted confidence, loud movements breaking suffocating stillness, gentle in courage. Contracted betrayals linger but lie buried under sleeping monsters, slumber peaceful. He shows it with pushed up glasses, lowered smiles, quick grasps around shoulders when relief hits hard. Joy is in accommodation and he treasures it in change.

Thor finds it under open skies waiting to be raced, arms of brethren clasped in promise, forbearing in favour. Quilled legends warn despair only to be rewritten by present, bleeding ink instead of regret. He shows it in clapped backs, shared elixirs of divine denial, gentle gaze in fragility of glass. Joy is in hope and he shoulders it with defiance.

Tony finds it beside created families, wiped out makeup, beauty in the rotten. Ripped out hearts tick faster at falling walls but shields were made to be tested, chance taken when presented. He shows it with underplayed hovering, open doors to corners under construction, lives built into monitored intelligence. Joy is in assimilation and he saves it with effort.

Steve finds it in remembered fragments, diffused bombs away from crowds, hesitant in surrender. Crashing realities tempt away from dreams to be chased, pushed back into boxes. He shows it in corrected assumptions, stolen fondness from the shadows, indirect advice from old memories and amateur attention to new fascinations. Joy is in acceptance and he learns it with freedom.

They find joy in passing, in ridges along battle scars. It doesn't stay and doesn't save but it survives when all else drowns. They aren't joyous as imagined but what is imagination if not a tool to create temporary joy?


	6. Kiss of life and death

Clint had atoms of fallen leaves, curved brown in edges and cupped to gather kind dew. Chapped skin widened, sharp edges to laugh lines, bitter grounds in light touches. He kissed with whirlwinds receding as lips parted, eyes held and scent inhaled. A kiss of saved air was his mark.

Natasha was filled with drops of jagged icicles, balanced before fall and attached to fossiled homes. Ghosted blush rubbing off, bowed lips to target sores, sweetened dreams in skimmed tips. She kissed with glint of a midday sun as hands pulled down shoulders, hair teased collar and breath exhaled. A kiss of wagered hearth was her stain.

Bruce revealed swirls of extracted molasses, coarse in stringed lines and rewarding beneath grainy clots. Smooth fringes hide forehead, furrowed bridge of brows, healed burns in tentative fingerprints. He kissed with clenched shut eyes, withdrawn hands behind backs, chest concave against hurting heart. A kiss of risked comfort was his tinge.

Steve unwrapped corals of unnamed worlds, buried deep beneath dark and misshapen in wonder of every discoverer. Marble jaws softened, hands raised to hold in care, golden myths in paused surrender. He kissed with clouded eyes, heavy knees holding down shuffling feet. A kiss of guarded memories was his stroke.

Tony scattered into smoothed coal beneath diamond masks, absorbing light to flame darkness and create warmth with self. Trimmed beard framing screwed shut secrets, lit iris under longing gaze, crushed lungs to raise heart. He kissed with exploding breaths, pliant waist fitting palm, lashes meeting bruised cheeks. A kiss of thrown caution was his design.

Thor crackled with arcs of rainbows, layered in hues of humanity and something more, bright in guidance. Messy tresses reflecting heated rays, bowed head over broad back, stabbed with want of missed endings. He kissed with engrossed mind, loose embraces, clinging lips to losing affection. A kiss of expected change was his aftermath.

Lips were mere moments, hopeful promises of mirage. Open or closed, they held on as long as they were allowed. Not forever. Not always. Just for one breadth of a kiss.


	7. Mourning of the martyrs

Tony crouched against his own walls, mourning in gold flakes abandoned to the wind. Hitching breaths pounding against throat, scrambling hands for metal cold, torn sounds roiling in his gut. Rhythmic shots of pain laced poisoned veins, low burn of flames unattended in gas houses. He mourned as larks do, hidden in sight.

Steve leaned against crumbling stairwells, weathered hands cradling mourning mind that creased no more. Flexing fingers around empty smoke, blue rims of unseeing eyes, piled static in his ears. Pinpricks seared numbness of the back, motion captured of frost over stuttering heart. He mourned as ants do, unasked outside purpose.

Thor bowed over buckled knees, mourning in greying hair between unkempt beard. Roared out pain, shaking limbs holding death, clawing fingers over proud chestplate. Ghosts scarred over his arms, ash gaining sweat over cheeks as echoes left loose lips. He mourned as clouds do, heavy despite light.

Bruce pressed bloody palms to thundering ears, sickly green rising up his chest. Ripped skin stitching as they tear, fists buried in falling hair, shivers rattling in oxygen rejected. Bullet shells ring under feet, emptiness drags the neck low in a noose of imagined innards. He mourned as seeds do, buried till thrown out with dirt.

Natasha wrapped arms around her gut, peeled open eyes mourning blinking red. Trembling lips pierced by earned wolves' teeth, dragging air around choked larynx, bile fresh behind tongue. Cracked bones shatter under weight, legs dragging towards the next death with remaining life. She mourned as graves do, filled yet hollow.

Clint wrestled against pulsing heartbeats, mourning in all dimensions for silent viewing. Sobs erupted as scoffed laughter, purpling bags under eyes narrowed, unsanctioned jerks of toes against binding leather. Wrapped cuts scratch open on strings, simmering edges of targets blurring on target boards. He mourned as flags do, manipulated in independence.

Mourning was an unprecedented wail that was bitten off, swallowed in war cries. It was a vow of denial. It was the end of victory. It was the beginning of avenging.


	8. Temper trials

Anger touches Steve in blueprints. Adrenaline slows to clarity, chinks become targets, cold and curt and agile. Heels dig into cracks, fissured strips of past knowledge curling around fists. Night he is, dark over sleeping lions. Run, he dares with nimble feet and cut palms, charge into the frozen wall till the wall throws you down. Anger in him shows blazing blue eyes of changing water.

Anger welcomes Tony in redtape. Defiance stokes a darkened smithy, people become projects, wet spark and prying and oil spills. Roads crisscross rules, palms rage burning light as statues melt down. Noon he is, sweltering sands that house quenching cactii. Tear, he challenges with uptilt chin, rip my flesh and let my light blind you dry. Anger in him runs down sweat of swinging arms of fire.

Anger calls Bruce in green rooms. Masks fall off as controls shift, nature digging roots into veins mixed, wild eyes and high throws with straining muscles. Voice deepens as soul breaks through. Dusk he is, the blanket of dusted orange over a passing horizon. Shoot, he snarls with pungent growls, puncture my limbs and watch my knuckles pulp your tissue. Anger shows in him with rippling tendons of uprooted trees.

Anger flashes for Natasha in blacklists. Jade pinpricks assess, flaming hair sway warning, hoods fall over as visage becomes brittle mirror. Names, games, fames topple with mercy carved out. Eve she is, holding apart an escape and chance of shelter of unfortunate travellers. Threaten, she tempts with bloody smile, show me a cage and coil your neck in my razor web. Anger in her shows with sparks from a spitting red poker.

Anger bruises Clint in purple shadows. Taunts hit bulleye, teeth snap against tongue, unseeing and uncaring in projectile wounds. Body slams barred boundaries, gaze holds in venom of verity. Bonds snap like string, danger bowing to destructive loss. Twilight he is, morphing from shadow to hesitant light outline. Capture, he mocks from shattered window panes, prison my mind and find your lives razed to the ground. Anger shows in him with kicked up dust under collapsing ceilings.

Anger finds Thor like a lost greyhound. Hands choke over throats, gut bleeds into blows, raging and reckless and bellowing accusations. Feet step into personal space, exhales warm with boiling blood betrayed. Dawn he is, the broken seal of patience from a restless dark envelope. Burn, he challenges, melt my body to your urns and collect the remains of who I glaze in reply. Anger in him crackles with lightning between silent clouds of void.

Anger is a foe and a familiar to every one of them but befriend it does a wizened Fury. And the hill where he holds control does Maria with her vaulted wrath share. Heroes climb across it after storms and leave their stories as future's watchtower. Temper passes in tempests today.


	9. Laughter is the medicine

Laughter is a reprieve for the rogue prince and Thor lets it engulf his aches. Soft chuckles collected in dimpled chin, slapped knees against morbid cracks, gentle wit in behemoth chest of hallowed wisdom. Mane thrown back and mind thrown open, he laughs as thunderous applause.

Laughter is a recollection for the mannequined soldier and Steve lets it erase his control. Huffed exhales between shy smiles, stretched skin between unstained cheek and jaw, familiar humour in unknown terrains of a human sea. Eyes lowered in blinks and exposed imperfect chinks, he laughs as defrosted cheers.

Laughter is a routine for the disliked showman and Tony lets it reveal his flaws. Blush stolen from hidden warmth, teeth unclenched behind shy palms, fond eyes track unplanned change in crafted moments. Soundless in affection and heartbeats sans affliction, he laughs as addictive encore.

Laughter is a reflection for the deflective spy and Natasha lets it imbue her kindness. Quirked curves of unattended lips, mischief lining curious gaze, nose wrinkled in teasing apology of unapologetic company. Fingers linked below heart and making vulnerability an art, she laughs as fleeting adoration.

Laughter is a risk for the blindsided marksman and Clint lets it drain his regrets. Raised brows at pranked targets, shoulders hitting back of recliners, shaking with mirth despite a sober aftermath. Sticks spinning between bony fingers and jibes evading lonely triggers, he laughs as soaring praise.

Laughter is a rarity for the exiled healer and Bruce lets it embrace his hollow soul. Dual timbres through a sole throat, cupped mouth under dancing eyes, wiped glasses for clarity of confusing compassion. Rolling brown gaze at terrible puns and dispelling a monstrous haze for once, he laughs as forgiven favour.

They laugh at life between life laughing at them. Horror threatens to kill but humour offered to sustain. A latent talent of those living in gallows, they laughed with a lovely irony.


	10. Peter's Anger

It starts with a missed inch between fingers, tantrum building from frayed helplessness. Why isn't mine theirs and ours one, he babbles but nobody understands more than his pulled on diapers and dripping drool. Lungful of wails and fistful of chewed cloth, anger is a baby's innocence in a dispersing funeral home.

It grows with a fighting tooth under weak gums, tears welling as confusion swells. Why can't you pull what is pushing out from inside me, he blubbers but coos are jamming the airwaves with cereal blocking his words. Stuttering gasps of pain and faceful of kisses, anger is an invisible fae's trickery for pillow treasure.

It coils with a missed word between disjointed meanings, swallowed air and unexplained pauses. Why won't you give me your tongue so I may say my thoughts your way, he whines but fingers ruffle hair like feathers as affection adopts the lanky bones. Mumbled apologies to shadows and mutually ignored nightmares, anger is a curious thief's unexplained exemption from corners.

It builds with a racing heart before sprinting neurons, reasoning muddling risks with correlation. Why can't I draw you my pulse pattern so you would believe my fascination for you, he groans but kind eyes in kindred spirit decode the surface as input renders the wrong output. Half said goodbye to fading footsteps and rattling regrets in masked heart, anger is an unlucky lover's purposeful fall from grace.

It crumbles with a collapsing web as flesh hits foreign soil, duty clashing against determined principles. Why won't you listen to the unsaid reason that I know will come later, he sighs as sides of the same coin flip him around to only break in half. Flashing light on ceilings and ice on bruised skin, anger is a stranger's pain for broken families of familiars.

It flares with a dying sun as the moon turns to weapon, desperation failing survival of defending fate. Why am I leaving you when you try to hold on, he pleads as a hero's hubris pulls him down with a snap judgement. Running sand between palms and bloodless bonds left with dust, anger is a numbing acceptance when denial won't save the world.

It hits and hits the young like an old prizefighter with too much to prove. Anger screams and claws at wrists with a shooting pain of gloom. It isn't all he is but all that would be unspoken - a spider spinning hope but tangled in itself.


End file.
